My Angel
by SincerelyRainbow
Summary: When Matt found himself on the outer edges of living, one person was there to bring him back. MelloxMatt. Light spoilers. Rated T for self-mutilation/alcohol/drug references. One shot.


_AUTHOR NOTES//  
I have no idea what inspired this story. It's basically something Matt is writing, until the last paragraph. I realize emo-angsty Matt is done a lot around here, however, I wanted to try it myself. Yeah, well, it was written in about 45 minutes.  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Death Note, Mello or Matt. If I did, I'm pretty sure Matt would have been in more than one episode.

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_The way he stands in the window sill with the windows pushed open and the wind blowing through his golden locks, and the way the sun seems to give him a gold lit silhouette make me feel as though I'm staring at an angel. Yet, when he steps away from the window into the darkness of our room, the angel exterior fades revealing another side of Mello. The cold-hearted shooter, the mafia leader, the tiger himself. Yet he's still an angel to me._

_Most people would consider me crazy to consider this crazed blond to be anything near holy, much less an angel. I'd say they're right, but that's only because I have my doubts about a higher power. However, if there is a God, then he must have sent Mello to me to save me from the darkest parts of my inner self. Because just when I thought everything was falling apart, and just when I thought I couldn't sink any lower, and just when I thought that I was on the outer most edges of living, God or whatever is out there sent back my angel._

_As I sat on the floor, curled into myself as best to my abilities, I recalled a question that somebody at the bar I frequented had asked me. Something about layers and why I wore so many. And as I pulled up my sleeve, I realized why I could never wear short sleeve shirts in public. The scars on my forearms went all the way up to the bend of my arm, and they went every which way, from countless assaults from the pocket knife hidden in my jean pocket. I had never cut deep enough to kill myself. Death by razor always seemed so melodramatic._

_The way I saw it, my life style in general, if one could call it a 'life' style, would kill me over time. And for once, I didn't care whether or not it killed me. Whether it be the cutting, the drugs or the alcohol, one of the three would eventually be the death of me. I had already decided smoking alone wouldn't do any harm. Sure, my lungs would be blackened, but really, who sees your insides until after you're dead?_

_Perhaps, that night I had gotten carried away with the drinking. I don't even know how I ended up back inside my apartment. Maybe Flip or Skitz had brought me home. At least, I hoped it was one of them. Not that it mattered how I ended up home, I ended up home nonetheless._

_Let's put it out there, unless I'm also high, I'm not one of those happy drunks. Life is not a beautiful thing, and I am no philosopher when I'm drunk. Drinking by itself is a mistake for me, and usually I find myself smoking a joint while drinking away at whatever alcoholic beverage is passed my way. But that night was different. That night I hadn't been able to smoke anything, and the alcohol alone was making things worse than they already were._

_And as I sat there, in my alcohol induced depression, I stared at my arms with a sadistic type of stare, as if everything had come down to this. The faint light of the streetlight shining in from the open window glistened off the knife, giving it a mysterious yet appealing glow. I held the knife up towards the light, examining it carefully. There were still a few bits of blood upon the razor sharp edge that had dried onto the blade from previous assaults. I ran the blade across my palm, testing just how sharp it was, and as the blood began to seep out of the open wound, the sadistic smile crept across my lips, and I felt a laugh escape from somewhere deep within. The laughter took me aback because I hadn't heard my own laughter in so long, and I wasn't sure if I still possessed the ability to do so. Even high, I had never done more than a smile. I had always assumed that when Mello left, he took that part of me with him, just like he had taken everything else._

_The blood trickled down my palm and down my wrist, leaving a crimson trail as it poured from the open would. Yet that cut alone wasn't enough. Looking back on it now, I should have stopped with the palm cut, but something deep inside me wouldn't allow it. It was as if the blade had gained a voice and was telling me to cut. To cut deep into the vein, to cut away the pain. And despite my better judgment, I listened to that voice I was hearing._

_The blade made its way down my forearm, begging at the wrist and going down to the bend of my arm. I repeated the motion, cutting it deeper into the veins, watching in a psychotic amazement as the blood poured from the cuts. Then the assault on my other arm began. The blood poured from my arms and onto the carpet, staining it with a crimson color. Somewhere in the midst of this, I guess I lost consciousness._

_And when I finally awoke, in my bed and bandaged up, I saw a figure in the window. The sun rising gave it the appearance of an angel, and its golden locks moved with the wind. And for a moment, I felt as though I had died and gone to Heaven, assuming it exists. The figure turned to me, and instantly, I recognized it as Mello. He had aged some, probably due to stress of life, and a scar ran down the left side of his face. I made a note to ask about that later. Nonetheless, it was Mello._

_God, or whatever is out there, had sent him back to me, just when I needed him. He came back, rescuing me from the scariest thing of all---myself._

"Hey Matt," the blond says, standing in the doorway, "You want to go for a walk or something?"

The gamer shuts the notebook he had been writing in when a spontaneous urge to write had hit him. He runs his fingers down the front of the notebook. A small M is drawn in the corner, although it's uncertain which boy the letter belongs to. Perhaps it's Matt's and he's writing a journal entry. Or perhaps it's Mello's, and Matt wants to tell the blond just how much his return meant. Either way, Matt slides the notebook into a pile of Kira files and rises from his spot on the floor.

He wraps his arms around the blond's neck, giving the boy a quick kiss on the lips.

"Let's go, angel," he whispers, just barely audible.

"What was that?" questions Mello, staring into Matt's emerald eyes.

Matt simply shakes his head and pulls the blond away from the apartment.


End file.
